


Do what it takes to survive

by Kangoo



Series: but first they must catch you [7]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: (or at least i hope it's not too graphic), Alcohol, Angst, Character Death, Flirting, Friendship, Hurt No Comfort, Non-Graphic Violence, Non-Linear Narrative, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Team Bonding, The Red War (Destiny)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-25 17:47:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20728277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangoo/pseuds/Kangoo
Summary: “What happened to your fireteam?”





	Do what it takes to survive

**Author's Note:**

> this is a direct continuation of [carry it to your grave](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20303905). i strongly suggest reading that first!
> 
> this gets huh. dark. don't get too attached to the fireteam like i did lmao
> 
> the last two scenes took me....... three times as much time as the rest of the story. but the whole thing just took wayyy more time to write than i first anticipated.
> 
> endless thank to [BaronetCoins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BaronetCoins/pseuds/BaronetCoins) for her support while i scream about occam
> 
> fun fact: the working title of this story was 'The Fuckening' and i WILL continue to refer to these events as such

“Who’s _humming_?”

Karjan’s annoyed voice rings out through the comm. Occam watches him through the scope of their rifle from a hundred yards above. He’s leaning against the wall he’s using for cover, hand pressed against the side of his helmet as if it would help him localize the source of the sound. Occam starts humming louder, grinning when Karjan’s head snaps in his direction. The other Titan somehow manages to look accusing through his helmet.

“Stop that.”

They don’t. Instead they point their scope away from him and towards their target. After a moment he does the same, though not without a frustrated groan. It’s only half felt: the man has the patience of a saint. Necessary, they suppose, when one has been handed off the unenviable position of leader to two Guardians who are both deeply individualistic and basically made of wet tissue paper.

“Blitz, status.”

The sound of her shushing him barely comes through the radio static. Occam tries to follow her path on the open pathway between their cover and their target — the faint ripple of her optical camouflage fades in and out of sight depending on the way the sun shines over her, and they lose track of her somewhere halfway. She reappears next to Karjan and rises from her crouch with fluid grace.

“Kell’s here, along with ‘bout a dozen Captains with all their squads in tow,” she tells them. “Won’t be an easy fight, and it’s not gonna let itself be drawn out of hiding.”

Karjan sighs. “Well, it’s not like we came in expecting this mission to be easy.”

“You got a plan, chief, or you’re just going to whine until the next fallen guard stumbles on you two?”

“Isn’t it your job to make sure _that_ doesn’t happen?” Blitz quips back.

“I don’t know if you’ve notice, Blitzkrieg, but gunshots… are actually loud. Just a thought.”

“You’ve got a silencer. Use it.”

“Can’t put a silencer on _this _beast,” they say with a note of pride. “This baby can punch a hole the size of my fist through Vex plating. It’s not _made_ to be discrete.”

“Size of your fist ain’t exactly impressive, small fry.” She doesn’t let them get a word in before she continues, “What did we bring you there for then? Because it sure ain’t for your sunny disposition.”

“_Because_ I can shoot a fist-sized hole through whatever the fallen throw at us. And the Kell, once we reach it. _You_ can deal with the rest.”

“_People_,” Karjan interjects before they can work themselves up into a full-on argument. “Stay focused.”

Blitzkrieg makes an appropriately apologetic sound. Occam rests their chin on their arm and begrudgingly wait for him to continue. He’s lucky he has a nice voice or they wouldn’t listen to a single one of his strategy talks. Who cares about _plans_? Occam can shoot anything.

“Did you find a way in past the guards?” He asks Blitz. She nods. “Good. We’ll follow you in, dispatch any fallen in the way as quietly as possible. Once we’re in, we go in two teams. You and I on the ground as a distraction while Occam go find themself a perch they can shoot the Kell from. If we’re lucky we won’t even have to fight the Captains, and we can be out of here by sunset.”

“And what do we do if we’re _not_ lucky?”

He shrugs. “Fight our way out, most likely. Occam will cover us, right?” That last part is directed at them,

Blitz makes a derisive sound.

“Of course I will,” they snap, even though they don’t know whether she’s doubting their ability to hit the Kell or to cover their asses. They’re tempted to _not_ do the later, if only to teach her. “I’m not incompetent. Just do your job and I’ll do mine.”

“Alright. Be brave, Guardians. Move out.”

-

“Hi, I’m Karjan Sim.”

Occam gives the outreached hand hovering in front of their face a dubious look, which they lift towards the Awoken’s face in a slow, unimpressed once-over.

“And I should care… why?”

To his credit, he doesn’t let his hand fall, just stand there like an idiot until they reluctantly agree to shake it to save them both the embarassment. It seems to count as a silent approval because they take a sit at their table as if they’d invited him to do so, quickly followed by the Exo following him. She flips the chair to sit on it backward, arms crossed over the backrest with her chin resting on them.

“Name’s Blitzkrieg-14. Call me Blitz,” she says flippantly, like it’s already agreed they’ll call her Blitz.

“Awfully long name to choose if you’re not going to use it,” they remark.

She doesn’t answer their unvoiced question and stares them down, inexpressive the way only Exos can really pull off, until they look away. The awkward silence goes on until Karjan figures out Occam won’t ask them what they want.

“We heard you’re a sniper,” he says, nodding to the riffle propped against their chair.

“The best there is.”

“Weird choice for a Titan,” he notes.

They’re killing enemies faster than they can kill people. It’s a form of protection, even if it doesn’t involve the shield-bashing, team-leading kind Titans are best known for. They don’t bother explaining that to Karjan, though. He looks like the kind of Titan who wouldn’t understand their reasoning. “Are you going anywhere with this or are you just here to state commonly known facts?”

“We also heard you’re a pain to work with and an all-around asshole,” Blitz quips.

They narrow their eyes, but can’t actually deny it. There’s a reason they work alone.

“Blitz,” Karjan says, in warning. He looks back to Occam and tilts his head in such a way that his white hair falls over his face, casting shadows over his eyes. “We need a third member for our mission. Someone to lay down some heavy fire while we’re fighting, keep some of the pressure off our backs, you know?”

“Don’t you already have someone to do that for you?”

“We usually find freelancers like you,” he replies. “And we don’t exactly encourage the thought of a permanent position, so most move on after a few missions.”

Blitz shrugs. “Their loss.”

Occam leans back in their chair and cross their arms over their chest. They’re not much of a team player themself. They work better on the side of the group, watching over other Guardians without having to cooperate with them. Makes it easier to work alone. But the solo missions they’re willing to run only pay so much, and there’s this one gun they’ve been eyeing lately…

They’ve got the nagging feeling those two approached them for this very reason. They are rather infamous for mostly working alone, not something very common among Titans.

“Yeah, sure,” they finally say, nodding slightly. “As long as you’re not asking me to fistfight a gate lord.” They rise out of their chair and shoulder their rifle. “When are we leaving?”

“Tomorrow morn- wait, just like that? Don’t you want to know what the mission is?”

“You want me to shoot stuff. That’s enough information for me.”

Blitz leans back in her chair as they stride past. “It’s gonna be Hive, just so you know.”

“Cool. I love getting weird organic matter on my clothes and the constant claustrophobia of infested corridors. See you tomorrow.”

-

Occam watches warily as Blitz sneaks up on a Vandal, all but invisible to anyone not already aware of her presence, and sink a knife in its neck. Their fingers tighten instinctively around the strap holding their sniper rifle to their back. They regret not having any inconspicuous means of fighting: in close quarter, with the imperative to be silent, they’re all but useless.

Blind, too: she’s the only one who knows the layout of the fallen lair. They follow her through crumbling hallways, sneaking between patrol routes, trusting her to lead them the right way. They glance at Karjan. He has that look in his eyes, focused, battle-ready. It makes the pale yellow glow fiercer, somehow. They have half a mind to tell him to close his eyes before the light attracts the fallen attention. Also because it’s distracting.

Distracting enough they don’t see the piece of rubble laying in their way and trip over it like an idiot. They stumble half a step before righting themself, glaring at the floor like it’s personally responsible for their clumsiness. Blitz glares at them, her finger to her mouth in a shushing motion. They flip her off for good measure.

They pick their way over to her, eyes darting from the broken ground to their surroundings. They track every sound — the barely-there fall of Blitz’s boots on the ground, the rubble crunching under Karjan’s feet. Farther away, the shuffling of fallen guards walking their patrol routes and, more distant away, the chattering noises of assembled fallen — getting closer as they walk. It’s making them uneasy, moving towards the enemy rather than away.

Blitz calls them over quietly. They crouch next to her and she jerks her head toward the end of the corridor and the fallen guard standing there, barely visible in the gloom. She signs something — they picked enough of the Hunters’ sign language to understand that she wants them their opinion on it. They tap the side of their helmet to call up the scope they had installed on the visor. It’s not much, not precise enough by far for a sniper’s work, but it comes in handy in situations like these.

“Just a Wretch,” they whisper, then, “Wait— another came up to it. They’re talking, I think. Facing opposite to us, but the way the corridor bends, we’ll have to go by them.”

She whirs quietly, the sound like the vents of a computer just powering up. Then she reaches for her side and takes out a knife from Light-knows-where. Hunters can hide those in every fold of fabric, or so it seems. Might be one of their class-specific abilities.

She hands it to them by the blade. They take it by reflex, flip it to test the balance. Perfect, as expected from a Hunter.

“You’re quiet,” she says matters-of-factually, though it’s a question, hidden as it may be. _Quiet enough?_ They tilt their head in assent. They can move silently, sniper career oblige. “Follow me.”

With a quick gesture at Karjan to stay put they sneak all the way up to the guards, moving as one through the shadows. Another hand sign:_ on my mark. _Then, raising fingers in a silent timer, she counts to three.

On four, they each plunge their blade in their respective fallen. The left one, Blitz’s, gets her habitual knife to the throat. Quiet and quick. The right one gets stabbed through the fourth and fifth abdominal plate, upward through the heart.

“Weird place to aim for,” she notes while wiping her knife on the Wretch’s clothes. “But efficient.”

“You shoot enough fallen, you learn what to aim for.” They do the same and hand it back to her. She waves them away.

“I got more of these. You ever looked up Thasra Xorish?” They shake their head no. “She a reef awoken. A doctor. Specialized in alien dissections, compiled a bunch of anatomical diagrams and photos in a book.”

“Interesting,” they say, only half sarcastic. Aliens have completely different anatomies from humans and, to an extant, awoken. It would be useful to know exactly what goes on in there.

“I have the book back home. I’ll land it to you if you want.”

“Sure.”

She turns around, waves Karjan over. Occam continues to look at her with… slight confusion. Odd, how you can spend so much time with someone and never truly know them. Not like they’ve been trying to, but… still. Odd.

-

“Ugh. You son of a bitch.”

Recognizing themself when spoken at, Occam waves a lazy hand from where they’re laying on the ground, sprawled half under the table they were drinking at just a moment ago. ‘Moment’, in that case, meaning anything between ten seconds and a few hours. Can’t look at the clock. Too blurry. The ceiling is spinning — no, the Earth is. But Occam is very still. That’s why they can see it spin now.

There’s a dull thud next to their head. They make a valiant attempt to investigate the sound and give up as soon as it becomes clear finding its source would mean moving… any part of their body, really. Someone filled them with lead while they weren’t looking. Kinda hard to move that way.

“Damn it Karjan, come give me a hand.”

“Yeah, gimme- g’me a sec.”

Strong hands slip under their armpits and, with a grunt, someone— Bitz- Bliz- Blik- she’s dragging them away from the table and hoisting them up into a sitting position. Their head hangs limply, rolling slightly as she tries to make them sit up straight. They blink blearily at the dark fabric of their kevlar jacket.

(This is Occam’s idea of casual clothes.)

A shuffling sound makes them roll their head to the side so they can watch Karj… Kar approach them. He wavers on his feet, stumble a few steps forward.

“Light, you’re drunk,” Blitz says, though she doesn’t sound exactly fresh herself. All that talk about how exos can’t get drunk, but throw enough high proof liquor at her and she starts to feel it.

“’M jus’ fine,” he says, frowns, then repeats, enunciating clearly this time, “I am just fine.” He nods, satisfied with himself, and kneels in front of Occam. “What d’you need me t’do?”

Somewhere under the fog of alcohol, a single brain cell bravely makes its way through the wasteland of Occam’s brain and, somehow, stumbles in the dark into another one. The collision gives birth to a single clear thought.

_Thank the Traveler for buff men in tight shirts._

It enjoys the luxury of free, unbidden existence for a mere few seconds before it is snuffed out by the pleasant blurriness of inebriation as Occam passes out. It will be remembered fondly despite its briefness.

“Grab their legs,” Blitz instructs him. “We need to get ‘em on the… the...” She makes a sound like a printer jam in frustration when the word eludes her.

“Bed?”

“Oh fuck no, that shit’s too far.”

“Floor’s nice. Comfy.”

“C’mon. Friends don’t let friends pass out on the ground.” Then, after a moment of deep though where she wonders if they’re close enough as friends that she’s ready to carry them to their bed, her original idea comes back to her like sunlight at dawn. “Couch. That’s- that’s the word. Get ‘em on the couch.”

He grunts in agreement. Together, after a little bit of trial and error, they manage to drag Occam off the floor and carry them the few feet separating them from the couch. Blitz starts swaying them like she’s about to throw them on the couch and, when Karjan doesn’t follow her lead and their weight turns out to be too much for her precarious balance, she ends up being the one to fall in the couch instead. She drags Occam with her and Karjan follows suit, pulled forward by their combined weight. They end up in a heap of limbs, all of them too drunk to deal with the hassle of untangling each other.

Blitz, the closest to sober out of them all, also happens to be at the bottom of the pile, so she’s really not going to bother. She briefly entertains the idea of pushing the two others on the ground but the thought of having to put Occam back on the couch after it all is too much effort to consider. She closes her eyes.

Karjan, who fell face-first into Occam’s stomach and is hanging half off the couch, mutters something too muffled to understand but that sounds faintly like her name. Part of it at least.

She shushes him. “Sleep now.”

He grunts in a vaguely agreeable way and, after a minute of arranging his limbs in a way that won’t cut his entire blood circulation, falls asleep. Blitz follows suit moments later.

-

They split up a few corridors away from their target. Karjan and Blitz stay low while Occam climbs up to the upper walkway that goes all around the center room of the lair. There are two ways to reach it. One lays in ruin, either from time or deliberate destruction from the fallen, and the other is directly inside the room. They are avoiding both. Their path takes them through the roof: the walkway is directly underneath it and there are so many cracks and holes in the stone it should be child’s play to get in and out undetected.

Doesn’t mean it will be _easy_. They’re not looking forward to the climb. Clambering up rubble is simple enough but there’s still thirty feet of straight wall after that, and dragging themself and their twenty kilos rifle up a perfectly vertical surface with only small cracks and crumbling stones as their handholds isn’t their idea of a good time. Then there’s still the roof, and dispatching any fallen guarding it or the walkway. Being a sniper is more trouble than it’s worth. They should change career — maybe baking?

They stop at the top of the pile of rubble, eyeing the other half of their climb. Already they can see a few possible handholds, try to plan their way up from one to another. They bounce lightly on their feet, testing the weight of their rifle on their back. It’s heavy, but they’re used to it. Ideally they’d transmat if to themself once in position, but the fallen presence is making it too much of a risk. Something about the Ether in the air is running interference, making resurrections slow and transmating unreliable.

“You’re gonna be okay up there?”

They only turn their head, not trusting their footing enough to face their teammates. A loose stone rolling down the pile of rubble could mean a nasty fall, or worse, detection. Their comms “I do this all the time, remember?”

Karjan shakes his head, and Occam can only imagine the fond expression he wears under his helmet. The way his eyes crinkle at the corner, the soft smile on his lips— he always look at them the same way when they play the loner. Almost amused. It’s infuriating.

“I know,” he says gently, “I still worry. Ask Blitz, I still freak out when she gets a limb blown off.”

She elbows him in the side with a huff. “Mother hen.”

He ignores her interruption and gives Occam a two-fingers salute. “Just be careful, alright?”

“I always am.”

He nods, conceding the point. He doesn’t say anything else, but they all hear his usual reply all the same. _Doesn’t mean I don’t worry_. Mother hen, indeed.

“Signal us when you’re in position,” Blitz says. She taps the side of her helmet, where her comm is, like he’d forget its existence. “Good hunting.”

They grunt in reply and, finally free from hovering teammates, start their ascension.

It’s slow-going, but better slow than dead. But they can’t afford to linger on the fragile handholds the crumbling wall offers them, so they reach the crack in the roof faster than they expected to. Their arms and shoulders hurt from the exertion and the weight of their rifle. It’s a familiar kind of hurt, satisfying. They can feel Vitale hum in the pocket of their coat, ready to heal them, but they don’t like to let xe out in the open. Xir shell has been reinforced with whatever pieces of scrap metal were at hand, but they still don’t trust it to survive direct fire.

They keep going.

The roof is more holes than not in some part, held together by the vegetation growing through the cracks. They make their way across it silently, crouched low to avoid any possible detection. Finding the room is easy: it’s all but open to the sky. What they’re looking for is any possible hole to the side of that large one, a direct way to the walkway. They find it, eventually. The leaves growing above it must have hidden it from detection: when they hazard a look down, there isn’t a guard in sight.

It’s a short drop. Occam lands with a muted sound, keeping a hand on their rifle to keep it from knocking against anything. One glance tell them the walkway is as obstructed as the rest of the building. It’s a mixed blessing: it hides them, as well as any enemy that might be guarding it.

Better be cautious. They stay low on the ground as they start to walk the perimeter, skirting around collapsed parts of the roof and climbing vegetation, careful not to stumble on any loose stone. It pays off: when, after a minute, they do find a guard, it has their back on them, completely unaware of their presence. They dispatch it the same way they did the other guard, with their hand pressed against its face to muffle any sound it may make.

It seems to be the only guard assigned to the hard-to-reach walkway. Good. They keep walking, just to make sure, until they find a spot with a clear view of the room below. They shrug off their rifle and position themself while observing the situation.

The Kell is there alright, sitting in a throne made of torn-off pieces of machinery assembled in a vaguely chair-like shape, under a shield dome. As are all its Captains and their squads. They roam the room, stopping in small groups to discuss in their chirping language. There’s enough cover that it should be possible to take them out individually, given one is quick and discreet enough.

Karjan won’t be too mad: he’s going to be useful too. They can’t kill all the fallen without raising any alarm, and this shield needs to go down eventually if they want to get their job done. The way Occam sees it, the assault needs to go in two phases. First, the ground team takes out as many fallen as possible without getting caught. Then, when they’re inevitably caught, they rush for the shield with Occam covering them from above, destroy the generators, then take out the Kell and leave as fast as possible.

Going unnoticed is crucial. It’s going to be a hard fight if they have to face the full brunt of the Kell’s forces. Better get rid of as much of them as possible beforehand, clear a way from the single door to the outside so they have an easy retreat if need be.

The way it looks, it should be a pretty straightforward mission. Not one of the easiest they had, but not one of the hardest either. Good: they could use the break, after last time.

“Occam? Are you in position?”

They check the stability of their rifle on its support before responding. “I am.”

“How’s it looking?”

They pitch their voice low even though it would be all but impossible for the fallen to hear it from down there with the noise they’re making, and start to lay out their plan.

-

It’s always kind of a surreal experience to see Occam out of their armor. Or out of a combat situation, really. It doesn’t happen often: they don’t like to be idle, often running a handful of solo missions between two team assignments. But it’s obvious that they’re not suited to it all — the calm and the apparent safety of civilian life. Too jumpy, too paranoid, too much a sniper to content themself with it. They know how to survive, for sure, but acting in polite society? That’s another challenge entirely.

Or so Karjan thought.

(In hindsight he should have known better: Occam loves nothing more than to prove you wrong.)

He went out with Blitz to cheer her up from her latest Crucible loss. He brought her home afterward, even though she complains endlessly about it because she’s too much of a badass to need a knight in shining armor — she’s right about that. But the night is quiet and warm, speckled with stars, and he’s in the mood for a walk. That’s why he’s taking the long way back to the barracks, past the bars on ninth street. He doesn’t usually come in this part of the City — it’s more of a Hunter block, anyway, less rowdy than Titans’ usual haunts but more likely to get you stabbed for nothing. Not that it’s much of a threat to a Guardian, but stabbing is never really pleasant.

‘Less rowdy’ doesn’t mean it’s calm, though, as he’s soon to notice.

The Hobgoblin’s Head is a small, poorly-lit pub sandwiched between a takeout kebabs and a shop advertising its stock of Knives and Knives Accessories. He sees it often on his walks but never went inside. He’s heard the fries they serve are among the best, but not even the best fries on the market could convince him to enter a building that looks so much like it’s held together purely by duct tape and prayers. And, to think of it, he’s never seen anyone coming in or out.

That’s partly why it’s such a surprise when the door is thrown open as he’s walking past it. He jumps aside just in time for a small figure to stumble out, ducking the shoe thrown after them. The door slams shut once again, the sound ringing in the silent street.

The stranger straightens up and glance toward the bar with an annoyed scowl. The movement put their face in the ray of light streaming through the glass door, but even then it takes Karjan a moment to recognize them.

“Occam?”

His fellow Titan makes a _tsk _sound before turning away and focusing on him. Turned like this, backlit by the pub’s light, it’s hard to make out their face. Their eyes are two dark pits, half-hidden under messy strands of hair. They’re not wearing their usual makeup. Karjan thinks with some surprise that it’s the first time he sees their face without it.

It changes them.

“Ah. Karjan.” They pass a hand through their hair to keep it out of their face. Their nails are painted black, he notices. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Karjan bends down to pick up their boot and hands it to them silently. They grab it with a small grunt of thank and hop on one foot while they shove the other in it, not bothering to tie the laces.

“Rough night?”

The way they huff, more scorn than laughter, is answer enough. “You could say that.”

He starts to walk and, after a moment’s hesitation, they fall in step beside him, rubbing their shoulder with an air of faint discomfort. From the manhandling, or the situation? He can’t tell. He’s never seen them uncomfortable before.

He shoves his hands in his pockets, looks straight ahead in an effort not to linger on them. “What happened?”

They’re silent long enough that he figures they’re not going to answer, which he half expected. Occam is hardly forthcoming with their personal life. But they do, eventually, speak up.

“Sneaked out of a guy’s bed while he was sleeping. He, huh- didn’t appreciate that.”

“Isn’t it a bit early in the night for a walk of shame?”

They shrug. “It happened a few days ago. He just happened to be here tonight, which I didn’t expect.” Quieter, like a joke, they add, “He might have taken it better if I had remembered him.”

Whatever Occam hears in his lack of response makes them sigh with clear annoyance.

“I was busy, okay? There was this really cute guy-” They clear their throat, cutting themself off. Occam, abashed? Correct: _this_ is something Karjan neverexpected. “Anyway you can’t expect me to remember the face of _everyone_ I sleep with. I’m a sniper, not a bouncer.”

So it’s something that happens that often, huh? Karjan has a hard time wrapping his head around it. It seems to out of place in Occam’s carefully crafted loner persona, the way they keep everyone and everything at arm’s length. He can’t help to stare at them as they walk side by side, trying to find… what exactly, he’s not sure. Something in their face that betrays this new part of them, something he’s never noticed before, maybe.

It’s not often he gets to see Occam barefaced, without their helmet of face paint, and he wants to say it’s why he can’t quite look away. But the truth is: he’s seen them enough to be used to it by now, and the effect is the same every time.

Distracting. That’s what it is. Distracting enough that he walks right into a lamppost, actually.

The collision leaves him confused for a second, too stunned to feel the pain from bashing his head against a metal pole. He takes a step back, blinks, then frowns thoughtfully, but his attempt at rewinding the recent events is thoroughly derailed by the unexpected sound of laughter on his left.

A chuckle, really, but that alone is so much more than he’s heard from Occam in the last two years. His best puns get an eye roll, at best, and even Blitz’s deadpan sarcasm is only answer by a mocking snort or… like, a puff of breath with amused undertones. They’re not the effusive type, obviously. This is different. This is genuine humor. If he’d known all it took to get that reaction out of them was slapstick…

Karjan shakes his head and looks at Occam again, rubbing their forehead even though it’s already stopped hurting. He wants to be annoyed, because really, they could definitely have warned him. But their mouth is quirked up in an endearing little smirk, the kind that looks like they’re physically stopping themself from outright grinning, and his reproach dies on his tongue at the sight of it. He swallows audibly, feels a helpless smile bloom on his face.

It’s shocked out of him when he feels a hand clutch the collar of his shirt, dragging him down to Occam’s level. He probably looks like an idiot, eyes wide and mouth gaping, but it’s hard to think about that with Occam’s face a mere inch from his, hot breath fanning against his lips. They look at him through dark lashes, face expressionless save for a single lifted eyebrow, like a question or an invitation.

It would be so easy to cross the distance. But there’s a nagging feeling like a fishhook caught under his ribs, the thought of Occam running out of a bedroom to another one, the insatiable hunger that always animate them, even in such a setting. Maybe it’s stupid of him, but Karjan doesn’t want to be another notch in Occam’s bedpost.

He lets out a shaking breath then whispers, “We have a mission tomorrow.”

“And?”

“I don’t want- _this_ to be a distraction.” _I don’t want to have to think about you running off in the middle of the night_.

With no small amount of frustration, Occam says, “I can be professional. Can’t you?”

Their free hand wanders down Karjan’s torso, settling on the curve of his waist. He groans and lets his head fall against Occam’s shoulder, body folding awkwardly to make that possible. Then, reluctantly, he pushes them away.

“When we come back,” he promises, his voice hoarse. “I’ll take you on a date.”

It’s a long shot, to even hope Occam would agree to a date rather than a one night stand. But it works. He has a feeling Occam’s heated gaze echoes his own when they reply, “I’ll hold you to that.”

And on those words they spin around and march off, disappearing in the darkness of a poorly-lit alleyway.

Karjan leans back against the lamppost, covering his mouth with his hand as he watches them go. His heart is hammering in his chest, an incessant chorus of _later, later, later_.

He can’t wait.

-

The plan goes without a hitch, for a while. Blitz and Karjan dart from cover to cover, taking out their targets without trouble. As soon as a Fallen is sufficiently isolated, out of sight of the rest, Karjan drags it behind whatever piece of rubble they’re hiding behind and muffles its sounds while Blitz sink a blade in its throat. It’s all very smooth and efficient and Occam is only slightly disgruntled that there’s nothing they can do to participate. If they considered lying down on a ledge some fifty feet above the ground while watching other people fight entertaining, they’d just watch the Crucible. And there’s gravel digging up in their sides but they don’t want to risk attracting attention to them by dislodging it.

They’re almost glad when it starts going downhill.

Fallen aren’t completely stupid. They notice their lookouts are disappearing, eventually, chattering to one another with some agitation as they realize they’re missing guards. They don’t raise the alarm yet. Instead some of the Captains peel away from the main group to search through the room. Karjan and Blitz exchange a look, indecipherable behind their helmets. Planning their next move, now that they’ve been spotted. Whatever silent discussion they’re having isn’t going to last long, if the Captain slowly approaching their hiding spot has anything to say about it.

Occam looks into their scope, aims the crosshair right on its head. Breathes in, holds it—

Fire.

The Captain goes down in a splatter of blood and armor pieces, a hole shot clean through its skull. The sound of the rifle echoes in the cavernous room. Occam winces as much from it as from the kickback — for all its qualities, this rifle really isn’t suited for covert work.

The remaining Fallen scatter, some clustering around their Kell to protect it while the rest converge toward the dead Captain and the two Guardians backing away from its body, guns raised.

“A little warning would be nice next time,” Karjan says.

“Less whining, more moving. We’ve still got a Kell to kill,” Occam replies, rolling their eyes. Children, the lot of them.

A single look between the two is enough. They nod at each other and each run off in opposite directions.

Karjan charges directly at a Captain, knocking it down before shoving his shotgun in its face and pulling the trigger. Its soldiers take its place, swarming the Guardian. He backs down a few steps. One especially brave Dreg leaps at him. He brings up his gun in a sharp, brutal arc. The butt of the shotgun collides with the Dreg’s chest with enough force Occam can almost hear bones (exoskeleton? Who knows how Fallen anatomy functions) crack from where they’re watching. The Fallen goes flying and crashes yards away, still twitching.

A Vandal used the Dreg as a distraction, jumping after it and swiping its knife toward Karjan’s throat while he’s distracted. The Titan falls to his knees to dodge it, summoning a shield to protect him as he does so. He doesn’t bother to look back at the Vandal, firing at the rest of the Captain’s troops. Moments later it collapses, shot down by Occam.

“You’re welcome,” they say distractedly, already busy looking for Blitz in the commotion.

She’s blinking in and out of sight, blades flashing briefly before she sinks them in the Fallen and disappear again. It’s actually pretty fun to watch her roll around, dodging and weaving through her enemies like wind. She’s an incredible Hunter and Occam would rather punch themself in the face than learn how to fight like that. Seems more likely to get stabbed herself than anything else.

Let’s get some heat off her.

They aim for the first Fallen they see aiming at her. They finger twitch on the trigger. Breathe in. Hold it—

Claws rip through the collar of their cloak, gripping the armor underneath, and they are dragged away from their rifle. Stumbling to their feet, they strike blindly at their enemy. The Fallen hisses in their ear and catches their hand with one of its own. An arm wraps around their throat, holding them above the ground, and the barrel of a gun is pressed against the side of their helmet.

“Occam,” Blitz grunts through the comm, “A little help?”

“Kinda busy right now,” they wheeze in response.

They claw at the arm and kick their feet uselessly, only managing to knock the rifle farther away from them.

_Fuck._

(Why do Fallen get to be tall _and_ have four arms and not them? Fuck the Traveler, _this_ is the true ascension for humanity.)

In their flailing they manage to kick the Fallen’s knee with some force, helped by the steel covering the heel of their boots. It makes a pained sound and lets them slip just enough that they get their feet on solid ground once more. They grab the arm around their throat with their free hand and throw themself forward. The Fallen taken by surprise, goes flying and falls back-first on the ground, letting go of its gun in the process. But it’s not surprised enough that it doesn’t think to hold on and is only able to fall in a slightly more controlled manner after it.

They reach for their sidearm just as the Fallen — a Vandal, by the look of it — reaches for their blades. They fire as they’re shuffling back, trying to get to their feet. The Fallen surges forward and grabs their ankles with its secondary arms and pull them back. Their shot goes wide as they fall to their back, the Fallen skittering on top of them. They block one of its knives with their gun and send both flying in an attempt to wrestle the blade out of the Vandal’s hand. The other knife takes them by surprise and they’re too slow to dodge it, only managing to move out of the way so the Fallen stabs them in the shoulder rather than the throat it had aimed for.

They grunt, twist around to keep it from taking the knife out and thrusting it somewhere more lethal. They kick up their knees, dislodging the Fallen long enough to wrench the knife free and get on top of the Vandal. It reaches out for its abandoned gun. They kick it away before it can get its claws on it. It collides with their own rifle and send both careening over the edge.

The clattering sound of their fall is soon drowned out by the gunfire and shrill chattering of the Fallen. Their comm crackle to life just as the Fallen is turning back to them, snarling and clawing at their wounded shoulder.

“Occam! Support!”

“Still… busy,” they grit out, lashing out wildly with their borrowed knife as the Vandal does its best to block them with its many hands.

They gasp wetly as white-hot pain lashes through them, and the irritation fades out of Karjan’s voice, replaced by concern.

“Fuck. Blitz, can you-”

“Bit _busy_ myself,” she snaps.

The Fallen manages to catch Occam’s wrist and _twists_. Occam lets outs a cry of pain and lets go of the knife. The Fallen takes advantage of it to roll them over, disregarding the blade to instead for directly for Occam’s throat. It wraps two of its hands around their trachea and use the two others to pin their arms to the ground while it chokes the life out of them.

And then—

The light goes out.

Or so it seems at first. Occam’s sight suddenly blacks out, followed by a loud, static kind of sound filling their head, like an electric generator surcharging. Soon even that disappears, replaced by the crushing silence of depth, of the buried, in water or in dirt. It is the heavy quiet of the grave, the kind that haunts Occam when the night is too dark, the same feeling of running out of air, the same yawning void in their chest as the cold seeps into their bones.

They’re going to die.

Adrenaline floods their veins, sets them on fire from within. They struggle against the weight holding them down in blind panic, rip one of their hand free, manage to wrap shaking fingers around the abandoned knife. Their chest burns, ears ringing like an alarm.

They’re going to die.

They thrust it in a blind panic and feel flesh give under the blade, feel hot blood coat their gloves. The pressure around their throat eases, just enough to breath through, just for a moment. Then claws tighten again, digging into their skin.

They’re going to die.

Even blinded Occam manages to hit the Fallen, though they can only tell where their blows land by how much it hurts their knuckles. Is it the lack of air, the panic, something else? They can’t see, can’t hear, can’t feel anything but all-encompassing terror, alien and familiar as it is, and pain. Everything is so loud and so quiet, the noise of fighting drowned out by the war drums of his heart.

They’re going to die.

They’re running out of strength, out of breath, out of _time_. Part of them wants to give in to the darkness, deeper than the shadows blinding them, the sweet darkness of sleep and death.

But the other part is louder.

_I don’t want to die._

It’s the part of them that said _dig _when they only knew how to be buried, the part that said _run_ and _hide_ when their blood turns to ice in their veins, freezing them on the spot. It’s the voice of something hunted, something cornered, the sheer animal instinct of survival at all cost, more teeth than thoughts, as much fury as pain.

_**I don’t want to die**_.

And this time, it says _fight_.

So they fight.

They lash out, grip the Vandal’s cloak and throw their entire weight to the side, kicking up their legs to dislodge the weight on their chest. The element of surprise is enough to throw it off and it lets go of their throat.

Occam was trying to throw it off them and off the walkway. They didn’t expect it to grab their own cloak and drag them down with it.

They only have a second to feel the edge of the walkway dig into their back as they roll over it before they’re plummeting fifty feet down.

(The silence on the way down is— blissful.)

The Fallen hits the ground first, by which they mean that they land on top of it. Occam feels armor and exoskeleton give way under them as they slam into the ground. The impact jars every bone in their body, rattling their ribs in their chest and knocking their jaws with enough force to crack teeth. It hurts, more than they can remember anything hurting before. It feels like everything is some manner of broken, battered or bruised. But as they lay there, gasping desperate lungfuls of air, they only really register the sweetness of their heartbeat, a staccato rhythm of survival.

Sight comes back to them slowly, creeping from the corners as darkness recedes. Then sound, static, then gunfire, screaming. They blink the blurriness of tears from their eyes, struggle to rise to their feet and only manage to flop to their side, exhausted.

There is a great emptiness inside of them, a space defined by the absence of what usually inhabits it.

“Occam! Occam, _come in_.”

They grunt, trying to focus their eyes enough to see where the voice is coming from.

Right, their comm.

“We saw you drop,” Blitz says, usually expressionless voice fraught with too many feelings to distinguish. Anger, fear, frustration, anxiety. “You alright?”

“No.” Their voice is hoarse, their throat sore. “What happened?”

For a second they think their comm went out, but the radio silence is still filled with the same damn static. They’re just not answering.

“We lost our connection to the Light,” Karjan explains, tense. “And the Tower isn’t responding to our calls.”

Blitz swears, enraged more than hurt. “No back-up, no support, and no _fucking_ Light.”

No Light.

No… healing, no resurrection, no absurd bending the laws of nature to beat impossible odds. Not this time. They’ve cheated Death too many times, and now Fate is coming to get its due.

“We’re overrun,” Blitz continues, hissing like an overheatting steam engine. “We’re going to die in this fucking place.”

And Occam only hears, w_e’re going to die._

Something inside of them reaches out, like liquid fire in their veins. The same prey heart that saved them, the rabbit-in-the-wolf’s-maw instinct. And it says,

_I don’t want to die_.

They roll on their stomach, get on their hands and knees, heaving when vertigo and fear and terrible, all-consuming pain slam into them. They crawl on all four, behind pieces of ruble and broken machinery. Their hand knock against the cold metal of their rifle — their beloved sniper rifle, covered in dust and blood. They can’t make their fingers let go, after that. It’s too much of a comfort to be able to carry and handle death themself.

Climbing to their feet is a process in multiple steps. First one foot flat on the ground. Push, then _up_, and the other, and they lurch forward — stumble with the weight of the rifle they refuse to drop. Use it as a crutch. Straighten up, wait for the world to stop spinning. Hoist the rifle up, the same familiar hold, one finger wrapped around the trigger.

Out there it’s chaos. Blitz and Karjan are fighting their way towards the only escape through a sea of Fallen, squirming with guns and blades and claws. For each they shoot down two more take its place, and the pile of bodies only grow while they weaken. They’re bloody, exhausted, armor in pieces, fighting with all they have because it’s the only hope they have left. There’s no way they can kill them all.

Without their Light, they will die.

But Occam can — run towards them, towards the door. Provide support. Or offer covering fire while they make a break for it, for as long as it takes before the Fallen notice them behind their flimsy cover. The chances are slim, but still better than if they stand there, doing nothing.

They can’t kill them all, though. Not alone, not the three of them. Not without their Light.

And, they realize, not all of them can make it out alive, either.

Karjan breathes heavily in the comm, laying briefly against Blitz for support while he reloads. “Occam, where are you?”

Too far gone to hear, running a ruthless calculus inside their head. Without support, Karjan and Blitz will be overrun, and then the Fallen will find Occam and kill them, too. But if they watch over their teammates like they’re meant to, like a sniper and a Titan is supposed to, then their friends will have a chance at survival, even if they will not. It’s a matter of distracting the Fallen long enough to flee: a threat big enough to keep them occupied while the rest run.

It’s hard to be such a threat on your own.

(That’s why Occam has a rifle that fires anti-tank rounds; for solo missions, for distraction, for heavy damage.)

But if their teammates stop running, and if Occam doesn’t. If Occam runs and they do not—

_I have the book back home. I’ll land it to you if you want._

(_I don’t want to die_)

_When we come back, I’ll take you on a date._

(_**I don’t want to die**_)

“Occam?”

Karjan’s voice is small, distant. A familiar warmth. This time unwelcome.

It’s heavy, a sniper rifle. Especially this one. It’s the weight of top-of-the-line armament. The weight of something that can punch a hole the size of a fist through Vex plating. It’s the weight of death, sure as the pull of the trigger. A responsibility, too, heavy on your shoulders. A kind of pride, a personal promise, both heavier still. It’s the weight all Titans wear, one way or another, with shoulder guards or a banner or a weapon. It’s a weight that forces you to think about every time you pick it up, makes you ask yourself, _are you worthy of this? Are you strong enough for this?_

Occam’s arms shake as they lift it, rest the butt of the rifle against their shoulder, but their aim is steady. The crosshair settle on its target.

Breathe in. Hold it—

_Fire_.

Blitzkrieg’s left knee blows up in a shower of sparks and shrapnel. She goes down hard, screaming with pure pain and rage. Her vocal processors give out halfway through, and when it picks up again her swearing is more static than words.

“What the fuck, who-”

They take off their helmet just long enough to tear out the commlink then shove it back on. Their eyes stray a second to the Guardians — Karjan stopped running to help Blitzkrieg’s up, as expected. They’re not sure she would have done the same. They’re… not sure they could have taken the shot, if it had been Karjan in the crosshair. But it doesn’t matter. The Fallen are already closing in on the two Guardians now that they’re pinned in place, unable to run with one carrying the other — or he could, but he couldn’t shoot at the same time, and that is as good as dead, as dead as not moving.

(As if they could bear to shoot _him_. Well, maybe they could. Aren’t they full of surprises tonight?)

Occam looks away. Throws the rifle to the ground. And then—

Then, they run.

-

The Drifter lays a careful hand on Occam’s shoulder, all too aware of how little it takes to spook them. Especially when they’re sleeping. Usually they wouldn’t even risk it, but it doesn’t look like restful sleep. They’re tossing and turning, jerky movements and laborious breaths, something like a nightmare. They have those often. It’s not good to let them stew in the horrors their own mind can conjure.

So he lays a hand on their shoulder, lightly. Careful not to jolt or grab them — that’s a sure-fire way to get a flailing fist in the face when they wake up. But even that isn’t enough, and they wake up with a wretched gasp, their hand rising to claw at the Drifter’s.

“Hey, hey,” he whispers, trying to sound soothing even to their hazy consciousness. “It’s just me. You’re in the Tower, you’re safe.”

They don’t move for a while, panting, keeping his hand in a white-knuckled grip. But that’s normal. Their eyes are wide open and unseeing, focused on some vision already fading with awakening. Eventually they relax. Take a slow, shuddering breath. Let go of the Drifter to sit up, push off the tangled sheets and all but fall off of his cot.

It’s far from the first time he finds them sleeping in his bed. More often than not, when he does, they’re having a nightmare. He’s used to that. But he’s never seen them so shaken by one, so out of sort, so… _distraught._ He reaches out again, hoping to offer some comfort, some support. They don’t push him away. Instead they stumble out of reach again, eyes wild, unfocused, downright panicked.

“Occam?”

It’s just their name, but it’s enough. There’s a kind of… deep, heart-breaking grief that crosses their face, the briefest flash of pain, before they seem to shake it off. They smooth their expression into a semblance of their usual impassive mask, making a small, crooked grimace when they look down and see their hands shaking.

They still don’t say anything. It’s fine. Drifter is used to doing most of the work, conversation wise.

“Nightmare?” They glance up briefly but don’t show any reaction beyond that. “Seemed like a bad one. You okay?”

Their eyes close. Breathe in, then out — coming back to themself. Calming down.

“Yes.”

Sounds like a lie, but he’s not going to say that to their face.

“What was that all about, anyway?”

“Nightmares happen,” they snap. That would sound suspicious if they weren’t that damn prickly after every minimal show of vulnerability. Winding them down after a bad dream is always an exercise in gentleness.

Still, Drifter can’t help to poke them a bit. An attempt at lightening the mood.

“Sure it has nothing to do with the suspiciously fresh bloodstain on my wall? Or did ya jus’ feel like giving the place a new coat of paint?”

The glare they turn on him this time is downright violent now, the barest hint of a snarl as they grit out, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

He watches them stalk out of the room in silence, like two ghosts passing by one another.

He didn’t expect the bloodstain to actually be connected. Fights happen all the time, especially between Guardians, _especially_ in the dark, isolated corners like the one he took residence in. Weird bloodstains happen all the time. But this suggests Occam is directly responsible for it, or at least took part in whatever led to it. And that’s… worrying. Just as much as them fleeing the scene as soon as he starts asking about it.

But he gets it. Really, he does. Sometimes all you need is just someone who’ll _not_ ask questions. Some thoughts, some nightmares, some _secrets_ just aren’t meant to be shared. He has more than his fair share of those, he understands the need for silence.

Still he wishes they’d let him _care_, once in a while. He’s not asking for much. Not even for their trust, not that he expects to have that any time soon. They don’t even need to open up, they only need to stop actively pushing him away.

Everyone needs someone to watch their back. He wishes they’d let him do it.

Light knows they need it.

**Author's Note:**

> trying to make occam as much of an asshole as they're supposed to be while still keeping them sympathetic is hell but i'm having fun, mostly. i love my garbage child
> 
> fun fact: in the first scene, they're humming 'a-hunting we shall go'
> 
> if you came from 'carry it to your grave': hope this satisfied your curiosity! 
> 
> title is from 'kill all your friends' by my chemical romance. ;)


End file.
